


through the mist, above the mist

by sangi



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-09
Updated: 2010-10-09
Packaged: 2018-03-13 16:24:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3388391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sangi/pseuds/sangi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aang is floating. His body is softly resting in gentleness, waves lapping at his body, soothing him into silence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	through the mist, above the mist

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in 2010, posted again here for archival purposes.

Aang is floating. His body is softly resting in gentleness, waves lapping at his body, soothing him into silence.

He can remember, and in a flash of white –

_There is red, red, red and a burst of orange and yellow and he is in the middle_ –

His mind shifts, turns, and he is peaceful again. He wants to wake, but… he can’t. _Patience,_ a voice says quietly into the night of his mind. The Avatar falls back into his trance.

Aang is floating.

* * *

 

Hakoda’s eyes are blue, bluer than he can remember and certainly bluer than his. Sokka watches wordlessly as his father recognizes him, the girl in blue behind him… and then watches as he notices the motionless body of the Avatar.

His father’s eyes widen as he pushes aside his water-warriors to come forward, walking past his two children to look down on a young boy with arrows tattooed over his arms; an obvious and telling arrow is on his head, which can still be seen despite the soft layer of hair over it.

Hakoda observes the boy, the soft rise and fall of chest as he breathes, _in and out and in and out_ , and reaches out a hand – it lingers in the air between them, and then he lets it fall.

“Will he be all right?” Hakoda asks quietly, looking over at his children. Sokka nods wordlessly. _We hope,_ he thinks.

Katara is at his side, and her hand is searching for his, desperately and almost-unconsciously. Sokka takes her hand in his and grasps it softly.

“He’ll be fine,” he assures.

* * *

 

Toph hates this feeling – the feeling of not being on land, of losing her way. She hates not being able to see what is around her. Her feet are restless against the iron of the ship, and though she is able to sense the iron, it isn’t the same as dirt, the same as soil.

She spends most of her time alone. Katara is with Aang, worriedly watching his body as if he would wake at any moment. Sokka is with his father, brewing up plans for the destruction of the Fire Nation and the Fire Lord. And so Toph sits in quiet meditation.

On the deck of the ship, she sits, ignoring the jibes of the water tribe men – little girl, they call her; the earthbender snorts. She is no little girl. Not anymore.

The sun passes behind clouds, and shadows fall upon her face; a short reprieve. A breeze blows ominously past the ship.

Toph lives, breathes, waits.

* * *

 

When she isn’t spending time hovering anxiously over the injured body of the Avatar, Katara is watching her brother and father cook up plots to destroy their enemies. She watches as they move around the pieces on the map of the world – _are we are all such pawns?_ the waterbender wonders.

Her cerulean eyes are dull with weariness, but still she watches as her brother and father laugh over some silly joke, and she still watches as they move forward the ships of the water tribes, overtaking the Fire Nation.

She sleeps from time to time, checks up on Aang, but mostly she sits on a chair in the captain’s quarters of an iron Fire Nation ship, watching silently.

Katara says nothing when Sokka topples the miniature figures of the royal family. She says nothing, but she turns her head away, and her fists clench. The waterbender feels a dark burn within her chest -

If she concentrates, she can feel the water outside, pushing against the iron of the ship, pulling away, almost wanting to get closer, just to get closer –

She doesn’t belong here, on a Fire Nation ship in the middle of the ocean, in the war room, in this war. _Are we all such pawns?_ she wonders.

* * *

 

From the cell on the ship where they are keeping him, he can hear his nephew’s voice. It is low and dark, and he is speaking of something potentially dangerous. Iroh tries not to listen to the voices that he can hear, but unending darkness leaves him curious to the outside world.

He can never make out the words, only the intentions. He often hears the dulcet and poisonous tones of his niece Azula, and comprehends her sinister objectives.  
  
The Dragon of the West is left unable to bend with the herbs put in his tea and his food. But the former prince hears when his nephew and niece spar – he can almost see the match, can practically feel the tension – and he knows the outcome every time.

He hears the thud of Zuko’s body as it hits the deck, and he winces at the blow. Azula’s taunting voice follows his defeat; she wins, as always.

_There are always two,_ a voice whispers in his mind, _and one will always be the victor_.

* * *

 

Zuko wants to visit his uncle, but he knows it is impossible and possibly dangerous. He has only just gotten back into the good graces of his father and sister, toxic duo that they are, and he doesn’t want to ruin his luck.

_What luck?_ The dangerous part of his mind sarcastically asks. _You had a chance, a chance at redemption, and you took the easy way out_. _You let it pass you by._

The reinstated fire prince shoves the voice away, and settles into a firebending stance: hands outstretched, he prepares, and lets the fire come to him.

If he lets his mind blur, he can become one with the fire; let it consume him, let it flow through his veins. It is an art he has learned to perfect in the past few weeks. With the fire, he can forget, he can lose himself.

Swirl and twist, and if he moves his hand just like that - _red, red, red and a burst of orange and yellow_ – and the boy-man finishes panting but feeling more complete, more together, than he had been before.

Clapping comes distantly from the sidelines, and Zuko whips his head around only to see his sister, a cruel sneer on her face, walking toward him. He inwardly grimaces, but lets her approach him. If he concentrates, he can hear _her_ voice, the soft promise of forgiveness and friendship and everything in between.

_Redemption… a chance at redemption… let it pass…_

* * *

 

Azula watches as her brother relentlessly practices his firebending. He has gotten better, she reluctantly admits, but he is not yet at her level. _He never will be,_ her inner mind hisses at her, and she has to agree with a smirk.

But he is changed now, more subdued and thoughtful. She dislikes this change. He has become less rash and more talented; where was the devastated and furious younger brother that had battled her? Where was the younger brother that would cry to their mother about everything?

He’s different. And the fire princess does not like this new Zuko.

In another world, Azula could have been supreme ruler. But in this world, she is simply a princess for the time being. And this bothers her like nothing else can.

For a time, she had been the firstborn; the one, the only. When Zuko had been banished, she had been elated because she knew the repercussions: she would one day rule the Fire Nation – she would one day rule the world.

But now, again, Zuko stands between her and the throne.

Her eyes watch unconsciously as Zuko goes through the last few patterns of his complicated dance, and she snaps back to attention as his hands and feet stop moving, his chest heaving. Azula smirks, sneers, and begins to clap her hands. She moves forward to congratulate him – and challenge him to another spar.

Zuko stands between her and the throne.

But not for long.

* * *

 

Ozai contemplates the two children before him. One, the eldest, the son that was nothing like him in temperament, but rather like his brother… and his wife. He scoffs at the thought. Second, there is his daughter, the youngest, the most vicious and representative of him.

It is obvious who his favorite is. One is strong, and one is weak. One is dark, and one is light. Zuko is weak and light and everything that he hates. He hates how his eyes are shaped perfectly like his mother’s, how he was quiet and curious as a child.

But – once, long ago, Ozai had been the weak one. He had been the slow learner, the un-favored child. And with careful planning, with deliberation and purpose, he had become the strongest. He had become the best.

He will not underestimate his son, because Zuko left predictable and came back a wild card. His loyalty was in question.

“Rise, Zuko,” he commands, and Ozai watches as his son rises from the floor, keeping his eyes reverently down, facing the tile. “You have done well. You are dismissed.” There is a soft _shush-shush-shush_ as Zuko slips out of the throne room, and then he is left alone with his crafty daughter.

But his eyes linger on the doorway his son had walked through.

“Rise, Azula,” he murmurs, and still she hears him, rising from her position. Uncaringly, the fire princess lets her golden eyes meet his. Arrogance becomes her, unfortunately.

“Be careful of your brother. He is capable of more than you credit him.” Ozai advises.

Azula’s eyes flash with defiance, but she still bows before she leaves the room. She glances back, once, only to see her father’s face looming ominously above the flames.

_There are always two, and one will always be the victor_.

* * *

 

Aang is floating, but his mind is restlessly waking.

Somewhere, in the middle of the blue, blue, blue ocean, there is an iron ship.

The Avatar opens his eyes to darkness.


End file.
